


a splash of cerulean

by princessoftheworlds



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artist Steve Rogers, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:31:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: Art historian James Barnes has the fortunate misfortune to not look where he's going at an art showing.





	a splash of cerulean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrow/gifts).



> For the wonderful [sunrow](http://sunrow.tumblr.com/). I was their Secret Santa. Happy holidays!

When Steve was six, his mother took him to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for his birthday, and Steve fell in love with the concept of art and being an artist.

He was a precocious boy, already well-established in his kindergarten class for having drawings that were more color-coordinated and realistic than his peers, but Steve vowed to be featured in a gallery or museum of the likes of the Met.

Sarah literally had to drag Steve away from Vincent van Gogh’s _Starry Night_ ; Steve’s feet were glued to the floor as he stood, transfixed by the painting.

In the end, it took two decades, and, while it isn’t the Met, SHIELD Gallery is still one of the top contemporary galleries in Manhattan, and Steve is the youngest artist to ever have his work displayed here.

So, when Sam asks him how he felt on the opening night of his very first showing, Steve smiles and tells his best friend, “I’m the happiest I’ve ever felt for a long time.”

Indeed, it’s perhaps the happiest Steve has felt since his mother died six long years ago.

Sam’s lips curve up into a handsome smile as he slaps Steve on the back. “That’s great, man! You deserve this; you really do.”

Steve pulls the other man into a hug and allows himself a moment to breath in the light, woodsy scent of Sam’s cologne. “Thanks, Sammy,” he whispers into Sam’s ear before releasing him.

“Steve, Sam, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Claire calls as she makes her way towards them, looking radiant in a brilliant green gown. When she reaches Steve, she plants a kiss on his cheek before linking hands with Sam, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Congratulations,” she tells Steve with a gorgeous smile.

“Thanks, Claire,” Steve replies gratefully, ducking his head bashfully, as Claire laughs kindly.

Sam nuzzles his nose against the curve of his girlfriend’s head, and she responds by leaning closer to him and sliding her other arm around his waist.

“I’m going to go get us some drinks,” Steve announces softly, not wanting to disrupt the pair of soulmates. He ignores the prickling of the skin around his collarbone, where his own soulmark is hidden by the collar of his dress shirt.

Sam nods in silent acknowledgement, and Steve quietly backs away, wandering in search of a server.

He’s passing by a wall displaying a few of his paintings when his eyes are caught by a splash of stunning cerulean. It takes only a quick glance to the side for him to confirm which of his paintings it is, and his heart clenches painfully-tight with grief before he abruptly turns and walks away.

Steve’s briefly swept up into a conversation with a local restaurant owner interested in commissioning him just as he spots a server hoisting a tray of glasses nearby. He politely excuses himself from the conversation and heads after the server.

He’s just grabbed two glasses of red wine and is swiveling around to finally return to Sam and Claire when someone bumps into him, jostling his arm enough that the wine spills all over Steve and the floor.

Steve stares at the wasted wine on the marble tiles of the gallery for a moment before slowly glancing up in bewilderment.

“Oh, shit,” the frazzled stranger says, blue eyes widened in alarm. “I ruined your suit.”

_Steve knows those words by heart; they’re sprawled across his collarbone in messy cursive._

 

* * *

 

Rewinding to only ten minutes earlier, art historian James Barnes is trapped in a conversation with a woman in her mid-fifties that he barely recognizes despite her claims that she and Winnie Barnes are “closer than sisters.”

“You have to tell me, James,” the woman says, stepping closer to Bucky like she hasn’t heard of personal space, “how do you stay so fit? You could be that one actor, the handsome one, from those movies. The ones about spies, _Mission Improbable_.” She draws a scaly hand across his bicep, and he tries very hard not to shiver.

“You mean _Mission Impossible_?” Bucky asks, taking a light step back.

The woman follows him. “I believe so. But, enough about that. We really should meet outside of society events such as this. Maybe lunch one day?”

Thankfully, Bucky’s liberator comes in the form of Natasha, his best friend and the director of the gallery, dressed elegantly in a gown with a lot of lace and straps.

“Mrs. Perry,” she says politely as she greets the woman. “Has James been boring you? He sometimes forgets that not everyone wishes to hear about Picasso’s penchant for Cubism.”

“No, no, Ms. Romanoff,” Mrs. Perry replies. “James has been treating me incredibly well. In fact, we were about to arrange a da-”

“Mrs. Perry,” Natasha states in a conversational tone, “have you seen the works on display? They are truly remarkable; the artist is very talented. Let me give you a tour.”

Despite Mrs. Perry’s protests, Natasha sweeps her away, not allowing her to glance back at Bucky while he uses the moment to sneak away.

Finally, alone and on the other side of the gallery, Bucky takes a moment to sigh with relief. He has always been charming and a social butterfly, but his one true weakness is people his parents’ age. Compared to George and Winnie, well-known New York millionaires, or even Becca, Bucky is the one who is always stuck in awkward conversations and strange encounters, even at family holiday parties or society events like this showing.

“One day,” he tells himself, “one day, Barnes, you won’t be able to make your mistake, and you’ll end up stuck on a date with one of these cougars.”

His soulmark, printed along his left forearm, takes a moment to burn, and Bucky unconsciously rubs at the sleeve covering it before adjusting the cuff of his shirt.

Slowly, he roams the gallery, examining its displays and exchanging snippets of conversation with some colleagues or acquaintances he recognizes.

Bucky’s just about to search for Natasha when his eye is caught by a splash of stunning cerulean from a painting opposite him. He moves until he comes to a standstill in front of it, taking every careful detail in with contemplative eyes.

The painting, titled _Sarah_ , depicts a woman in her early forties with plain features and light, sunshine hair and radiant, cerulean eyes. The overall style is somewhat simplistic, but it is obvious that each brushstroke was made tenderly; the subject is clearly near and dear to the artist’s heart.

From all the paintings that Bucky’s seen today at the gallery, _Sarah_ appears to be the artist’s best but is displayed in a corner of the hall, almost as if the artist wanted to keep this portrait private.

Bucky smiles gently before stepping distractedly to his right and bumping into a nearby stranger.

More quickly than Bucky can fumble and grab for it, one of the glasses of wine that the man was carrying tilts, splattering wine everywhere.

In horror, Bucky’s gaze travels from the polishe”d floor and up muscular legs in well-tailored cotton, over a white shirt made nearly-opaque by the wine that is plastered to a well-define torso, and past broad shoulders before it finally rests on a face that is familiar to Bucky because of two reasons.

The first one is that the man’s face resembles that of the woman’s from _Sarah_ ; they share the same gorgeous eyes and sunshine hair.

The second reason is that the same face was printed on a poster stuck out front of the gallery, advertising DEBUT ARTIST STEVEN G. ROGERS.

“Oh, shit,” Bucky says softly. “I ruined your suit.”

Steven G. Rogers’ facial expression flickers widely between bewilderment, shock, and joy before he finally says, awkwardly, if not a bit earnestly, “I was the one carrying the wine.”

_The skin on Bucky’s forearm prickles almost painfully, just as it had on the day his soulmark appeared, bearing the very words said only a moment before._

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh, shit,” Bucky repeats.

“Well,” Steve says in response, “I guess that we should talk.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/).


End file.
